A Question of Honour
by MizJoely
Summary: Revolutionary War AU. Colonial spy Molly Hooper is caught sneaking into the quarters of British Army Captain Sherlock Holmes and is saved from hanging only by his assertion that she's actually his mistress. However, once she and the handsome enemy captain are forced to spend time alone in his quarters, will the lie become the truth?
1. Wrong Place, Wrong Time

_A/N: Insanity. That is my only excuse for posting the start of a new multi-chap, historical AU Sherlolly fic. Sigh. Nevertheless, here I go, taking the plunge. Enjoy, and a heartfelt thank you to my lovely Beta and Britpicker, LoyaulteMeLie, for going over this and pointing out my inconsistencies. She writes wonderful Star Trek: Enterprise stories featuring Malcolm Reed, which I highly recommend. :)_

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**Autumn 1781**

Captain Sherlock Holmes, officer in His Majesty's Army, swung wearily down from the saddle before handing the horse off to the private waiting to assist him. The youngster – a lad of barely fifteen, possibly only fourteen, originally from Nottingham but living at least half his life in Wokingham before enlisting – saluted him, took he reins, handed him a note, and disappeared before Sherlock could question him regarding its contents, had he wished to.

As it was, he barely glanced at it before stuffing it into a pocket and plodding over to the town's single tavern, which his commanding officer, Colonel Sebastian Moran, had taken over as his headquarters when they'd been stationed here six months earlier. He was exhausted from patrolling half the night, but at least this latest circuit had resulted in no loss of life on either side of the battle lines; there had been no ambushes, no skirmishes, not so much as a single sighting of a rebel soldier – much to his secret relief. This blasted war had little more than a year of life left in it, unless he was very much mistaken, and it had become apparent to him in the past eight months that it was not going to end in King George's favour.

With any luck the summons was good news on that front; perhaps the higher echelons had finally come to their collective senses and were prepared to concede the Colonials' ownership of the New World, as many still called it. He stifled a grunt of annoyance as he snapped off an answering salute to the soldiers guarding the tavern, weary unto death of the formalities of army life, longing for nothing more than for it all to be over so he could resign his commission and return to London. A pity his mistress would no longer be waiting for him, as a recent missive from his elder brother had informed him of their impending nuptials – bastard always had to take what belonged to Sherlock and keep it for himself even if it was something he didn't really want – but the comforts of home still called.

Even the comforts of his quarters here in Marlborough, in the colony of Massachusetts, would be preferable to a meeting with Moran, but duty called and Sherlock had had the demands of duty drilled into him since early childhood. One day he vowed to find a way to escape the emotional chains that bound him to his unpleasant family (well, except for his widowed mother, of course, the woman was a saint to put up with her two surly sons for so long without entirely losing her mind) and the land of his birth, but that day was unlikely to be today.

Or so he believed. If he'd known that such disgruntled thoughts were about to be answered as if they were prayers offered up to a God he no longer believed in, he might have schooled them better.

Or perhaps not; Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not unafraid of taking chances. And the chance that was about to befall him was something he never could have anticipated. He opened the door and entered the tavern, entirely unaware of what fate had in store for him.

**oOo**

"Captain Holmes, good of you to join us, and apologies for not allowing you time to refresh yourself, but as you can see, it is a matter of utmost importance that requires your attention." Colonel Moran nodded toward the young woman standing, stiff and silent, hands bound in front of her by rope rather than iron manacles – her wrists were far too delicate to be contained by cuffs meant for larger, far more masculine prisoners – and her cinnamon-coloured hair somewhat mussed beneath the white mobcap. There was a darkening bruise on one cheek, and his own cheek twitched at the sight of that abuse. Even a prisoner had rights, especially a female prisoner, but this damned war made savages of even the most civilized men the longer it endured.

It came as something of an unpleasant surprise when he realized he knew the young lady. Not well, and certainly not socially, but nevertheless he knew her. She was from the market village of Baxton, seven miles east of Marlborough, and he'd purchased vegetables from her on several occasions, usually carrots for his horse. They'd spoken once or twice, introduced themselves to one another when it became apparent that he preferred the produce she had for sale to that of her competitors, but it had never gone beyond that most casual and businesslike of acquaintances.

That, he believed, was the extent of his knowledge of Miss Molly Hooper. Well, aside from the fact that she was an orphan living with an aunt, freckled easily in the sun and remained unmarried in spite of being reasonably attractive, hard-working and over the age of twenty (although not by more than one or two years, thus making her ten years younger than himself).

Yes, that was all he knew of her, except for the reason for her presence here today. She was clearly a Colonial spy, which next conclusion was borne out by Colonel Moran's next words. "Inform Captain Holmes as to the circumstances under which our 'guest' was apprehended," he ordered the young sergeant standing next to her.

James Moriarty appeared quite eager to do so, beneath the poker-faced façade he always maintained while on duty. The young Irishman wasn't the only guard Miss Hooper had; Sherlock's own corpsman, Corporal William 'Billy' Wiggins, stood on her other side, looking decidedly uncomfortable and either unwilling or unable to meet his superior officer's gaze. Interesting, that, something to discuss with the younger man at a later time.

After Moran's aide-de-camp had had his say.

As the sergeant told his story, Sherlock listened carefully while at the same time taking in the details of the other occupants of the large front room of the tavern, chiefly the camp's medical officer and his own good friend, Captain John Watson. John was standing a bit apart from the other gathered officers, hands behind his back and standing rigidly at attention in contrast to the more relaxed pose of the other officers. Officers intended to act as witnesses, Sherlock realized, in case a tribunal was required. He exchanged a brief glance with John, whose brows were lowered in a familiar expression of suppressed anger, then returned his attention to Sergeant Moriarty.

"This woman was seen entering your quarters while you were on patrol, sir," the noncom reported, his face as bland and unreadable as ever. "When Corporal Wiggins investigated, he discovered her rifling through your papers and brought her before the Colonel upon suspicion of her being a spy, sir." His Irish accent was strong today, indicating his excitement at the situation. No doubt looking forward to a chance to interrogate the spy, Sherlock thought distastefully. Bastard loved hurting people even more than their sadistic commanding officer did.

Not today. Not if he could help it.

"Actually, she's my mistress." Sherlock glanced around the room as a stunned silence fell over it, knowing it was because of his blandly spoken words. He raised an eyebrow as he added disdainfully, "What? Is that so unexpected an admission? I'm hardly the only man here to have one." He looked at Lieutenant Anderson as he spoke; the man openly lived with his mistress in spite of having a wife back in London. The wife was the wealthy daughter of a merchant and the mistress was the unacknowledged offspring of a black slave and her white master; the only thing in common between the two women aside from their sex was their unfathomable attachment to Phillip Anderson.

"Yes, but this is the first time we've seen you pay more than passing attention to a woman, let alone claim one as your mistress!" Anderson blurted out, apparently so shocked by the admission that he'd entirely forgotten his manners.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then made a lightning fast decision and gave up some deeply personal information that he'd had no intention of sharing with anyone but his good friend John Watson. "Until recently, Lieutenant, I had a mistress waiting for me back in London. She has, however, become engaged and has broken off our relationship. Having no wish to comport myself with other women while still romantically involved with another, I chose to abstain even with an ocean between us. Now, however..." He shrugged, leaving the rest of the sentence unfinished. He'd be damned if he revealed that it was his own brother to whom the lady in question had become engaged, or share any other details of his intimate relations with Lady Irene Adler.

It was at that point that Colonel Moran finally opted to weigh in, chastising Anderson for his inappropriate comment. Sherlock couldn't help but notice that he'd waited until he heard Sherlock's response before doing so; typical of their commanding officer's penchant for gossip, the more salacious the better. Still, this small sacrifice of his personal business was worth it, or would be if the outcome of this situation turned out as favourably as he intended it to.

Sherlock immediately turned his attention to the older man, who literally held this woman's life in his hands. If convicted of spying, she could be hung, but not before being given over to the non-existent mercies of Sergeant Moriarty – Moran's chief torturer. Any secrets the girl held would spill from her lips just as the blood would spill from her body, and there had been enough damage wrought by the British Empire's refusal to cede the colonies to the Colonials to sicken all but the most hardened of soldiers.

Not this girl. Sherlock refused to examine his reasons for wanting to save her life beyond that disgust with warfare that had settled over him recently. Yes, he barely knew her; yes, she was a spy and her actions might have led to danger or death for his own troops, but she'd been caught before doing any such damage, and therefore he saw no reason for her to be hanged. This was assuredly her first foray into his quarters, as he was meticulous about his belongings and would know instantly if anyone had gone through his papers on previous occasions.

Moran studied him, and he offered back the politely interested, slightly bored stare he generally affected when under such scrutiny. "What's her name, if she's your mistress?" his commanding officer finally asked, making it clear that an incorrect answer would earn both him and the girl punishment. And if Moran got it into his head that Sherlock Holmes was a turncoat, his own fate would be just as unpleasant as hers.

Sherlock responded without hesitation. "Molly. Molly Hooper," he replied. "She lives in Baxton. We met a few weeks ago and formed a...mutual interest in one another." He allowed his gaze to drift toward her bosom, causing a smirk to cross Moran's face and bringing a flush to Molly's cheeks, although she wisely remained silent, neither denying nor confirming his words. Moran's eyes traveled to the same location, and Sherlock was suddenly hard-pressed not to take his commanding officer to task for his blatant lasciviousness. He despised the older man for many reasons, including his callous abuse of more than one local girl, but also knew that the only way to convince him of the truth of his words was to speak in a language the other man would recognise.

Molly's teeth were worrying at her lower lip, the only sign she gave that she was concerned at all with her current situation. Although her eyes remained lowered, Sherlock caught her peeking at him and easily read her expression as a combination of fear and worry, with a certain element of calculation of which he approved. No doubt she was concerned that he was lying not to protect her, but to make use of her himself in some way. She probably suspected he wished to take her as his mistress in reality, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Well, perhaps that was an overstatement; she was rather pretty, if one were shallow enough to consider such things important, with delicate features and a slender figure that looked as if it would fit quite nicely beneath his taller, heavier form. Her lips and breasts were somewhat less than abundant, true, but he'd never been one to fret over exterior features. Coming into this occupied town, entering an officer's quarters boldly, during daylight hours, acting as a spy for a cause she passionately believed in – all of her actions demonstrated a strength of character well worth admiring. And saving.

"Is that your name?" Moran's question was an angry bark, and the girl flinched a bit before raising her head to meet his eyes, offering up a timid nod in response. "And are you, indeed, Captain Holmes' mistress?"

Her eyes darted to meet Sherlock's; his own expression remained bland, offering her no hints to follow – and therefore offering Moran nothing concrete upon which to lay his obvious suspicions should he choose to voice or act on them.

"Speak up, woman!" Moran demanded irritably, his green eyes hard as emeralds and his face set in angry, suspicious lines. "Explain why you were in Captain Holmes' quarters and found going through his papers to my satisfaction or else face the consequences."

Moriarty's tongue darted out between his lips, just a quick dab before retreating back into the cave of his mouth, but Sherlock caught it and forced himself not to react to such a blatant sign of eagerness. Moriarty was one of Moran's closest cronies, regulations against fraternization or no, and as watchful and suspicious as the commanding officer. The two were thick as thieves, a combination of their shared Irish heritage and a mutual love of inflicting pain on others that repelled Sherlock even when his own skin wasn't at stake. He held no love for them in his heart – an organ he'd been accused of lacking on more than one occasion, although he was nowhere near as heartless as Moran and Moriarty had proven themselves to be. Keeping Molly out of their grasp was motive enough for his actions today, traitorous though many might find them to be.

Molly licked her lips before speaking, her voice as soft and genteel as he remembered from their brief exchanges in Baxton. "I...he said he'd written a note for me, that he'd hidden it and tasked me to find it before he returned this evening," she finally said, and Sherlock wondered if she was making the story up on the spur of the moment or if she'd prepared it in advance in the event she was caught. "I, I thought it would be easiest hidden amongst papers he already had in his desk, so I was looking there when..." her voice faltered, although whether it was an act or an actual attack of nerves even Sherlock was hard-pressed to discern. Her gaze fluttered to Wiggins, who nervously shifted his feet and appeared unable to meet her eyes – the lad felt guilty for putting a woman in harm's way like this, and was undoubtedly expecting punishment if she truly was his commanding officer's fancy lady. She returned her gaze to Moran, a flush colouring her cheeks as she appeared to admit to the truth of the story Sherlock had concocted without actually doing so.

Sherlock felt a burst of admiration for her cleverness; oh, well done! It was plausible, especially if he were willing to back her up. He waited for Moran to turn his glower on him before nodding. "I did, indeed, draft a bit of a love note for the lady to find, something for her to read while she awaited my return." He affected a rueful expression and allowed a note of embarrassment to enter his voice as he continued, "I didn't realize that I'd neglected to mention her upcoming visit to Wiggins before leaving on patrol. My apologies, sir, for the disruption. You have my assurances that it won't happen again."

Moran studied him unsmilingly for a long minute before finally speaking. "No," he said, his voice hard and eyes still brimming with suspicion. "It won't, as Miss Hooper will not be leaving the premises for the duration of our stay here." His lips stretched in an unpleasant approximation of a smile at the stifled gasp of dismay that escaped Molly's lips before she clamped them shut again. Still holding Sherlock's gaze with his own, he added: "You've my leave to fetch her belongings from her home in Baxton, Captain Holmes, but she will remain under guard here until you return. After that, she is to be confined to your quarters unless under escort, do I make myself clear?"

"Does she have permission to write a note to her aunt, explaining her abrupt absence?" Sherlock countered, hoping that it actually was an aunt she resided with and not a grandmother or married sister; he hadn't paid close attention when she prattled on about her living situation, truth be told, having no idea it would hold such importance to him. However, the tension in Molly's posture eased just slightly, and he relaxed a bit as well, recognising that he'd got it right.

Moran nodded, lips once again stretched in a smile that never reached his cold green eyes. "Of course." He gestured to indicate the writing table next to his desk. "Set her up with quill and parchment, Wiggins," he ordered. "Then have someone prepare a horse for Captain Holmes. Better to have this matter wrapped up quickly, wouldn't you all agree?"

The answering murmurs from the officers present were all the colonel needed. He dismissed all but Moriarty, Wiggins and Holmes, but allowed John Watson to remain as well, to check on Miss Hooper's small injuries and to see that the ropes hadn't dug too deeply into her flesh. Judging by the black frown on the medical man's face Moriarty had tied them with his usual cruel indifference to a prisoner's comfort. Of course, both he and Moran would claim it was simply due to a desire not to allow her to escape, but Sherlock knew the truth. He bit back an oath as the ropes fell free, revealing the deep gouges and bruises that had formed in the tender flesh of her wrists.

She let out a soft cry of pain as John began tending to her, his own voice low and reassuring as he dabbed ointment on the inflamed wrists. He'd brought his medical bag along with him, prepared as always for the myriad ways men could inflict injuries on one another...and on the female half of the species.

That small cry affected Sherlock far more than he'd anticipated. Without thinking, he started toward her, but Moran's voice at his back stayed his steps. "We both know Dr. Watson is more than competent to tend to her injuries, Captain Holmes, and although I appreciate that you are impatient to see to her comfort," that last spoken in a dry, ironic tone implying a far more personal level of 'comfort' than the word itself meant, "but shouldn't you be preparing yourself for the journey ahead? Seven miles is a fair distance to go, and there's rain threatening."

Sherlock snapped off a salute, lips tightly clenched on the angry retort he wished to offer. But this man was, in the eyes of the law, his superior, and that damnable sense of duty wouldn't let him respond with anything beyond a stiff, "Yes, sir. I'll return for the letter within the half hour. She should be recovered enough to write by then, is that correct, Dr. Watson?"

He raised his voice slightly with that question, and John shot him an irritated look before offering a curt nod. Sherlock caught Molly gazing at him again before returning her attention to the man attending to her wounds. Her expression was guarded, as well it should be with Moran watching them both like hawks, and Sherlock's response was the reassuring smile a man might be expected to give his new mistress after such a terrible misunderstanding had occurred.

It might have been better if she'd been able to muster up a few tears, or taken his cue and begged him to help her, to explain things, but he was prepared for further questioning by Moran and had already decided on the explanation that made the most sense under the circumstances: she was a Colonial who would be shunned by her neighbours if it were discovered she was mistress to a Redcoat, so of course she was unwilling to admit to such a shameful thing even when pressed.

At least she hadn't protested Moran's pronouncement of her fate, but any woman would be expected to take up such high-handed treatment when alone with her lover, rather than making a scene in public. No doubt she would have a few choice words for him upon his return from Baxton. She and John Watson both; that much was a foregone conclusion. Whether his friend believed the story Sherlock had concocted or not didn't matter, as he knew Sherlock was no traitor and would eventually come to understand that the story was purely to ensure Molly's safety. If there was one man who was as sick of war as Sherlock, it was John Watson. Not that the man wasn't willing to face danger or afraid of putting himself in harm's way, but as a physician he truly loathed the nature of the wounds he was forced to treat. And the mistreatment of a woman, spy or not, was exactly the sort of thing to set his blood to boiling.

The interrogation Sherlock intended to subject Miss Hooper to was something he looked forward to with a great deal of anticipation. She'd presented a challenge to the life he'd found himself forced to live in order to live up to the expectations of his family; an unexpected one, but one he found himself relishing in spite of the personal danger into which he'd placed himself by lying to protect her. He bit back a grin at the thought of how his staid, by-the-book brother would take such behaviour. Ah, well. At the moment Mycroft no doubt had his hands full – literally and figuratively – with his new fiancée. Irene was never one to tolerate being placed in the background, which she'd implied had been part of the reason she'd opted to marry Mycroft rather than waiting for Sherlock to return from the war. Not that Sherlock had ever offered marriage to her, but he'd assumed he would be pressed to do so upon his return to England.

That thought didn't bring the stab of betrayal it had only a few hours earlier. Something more to credit Miss Hooper with, he supposed.

With those thoughts running through his mind, Sherlock made his way out of the tavern in order to fetch what few things he would require before his journey began. At least with no foot soldiers he could go at speed, reach his destination within an hour or two, deliver the message to Molly's aunt – if the girl was as clever as she seemed to be, she would find some way to include directions to her home in the missive without giving anything away to Moran, who was sure to read it before allowing it be placed into her supposed-lover's hands – fetch what few belongings the girl was going to need, and return to Marlborough and from there to his bed. He needed less sleep than most others he'd observed, but he was very nearly desperate for it now, after having foregone it for nearly thirty-six hours already.

He briefly considered the idea of discarding his uniform for the journey, then decided against such an action. Baxton was a pacified town, the majority of its population made up of British sympathizers, which made Molly's foray into espionage for the Colonials even more surprising. However, upon reconsideration, what better place for a spy to hide than right in plain sight? Especially since she was very obviously a new recruit, most likely at the behest of a family friend who saw the advantage in her situation. She was a familiar face to many of the British soldiers, had lived her entire life in the same small village, was an orphan with only one family member to concern herself with – and the older woman was very possibly a rebel sympathizer as well. All of which was speculating ahead of the facts, which he abhorred; he must be more tired than he'd originally estimated.

Forty minutes later he was once again astride a horse. Not his own sorrel stallion, Barbarossa, but rather John's placid gray mare, Toby, on the road to Baxton and bearing Miss Hooper's missive safely tucked inside his uniform jacket.

He'd read the note, of course, but then, so had Moran. As anticipated, the resourceful Miss Hooper had included directions to her home disguised as a request for her Aunt Martha to allow Captain Holmes to move the market cart into safe storage until her return, which, she claimed, would be within a few weeks.

The reason given for her absence was plausible; she'd supposedly been offered a position in the kitchens of the occupying army. Plausible, yes, but her aunt would likely believe none of it and demand the truth.

A truth, of course, that would fall upon him to deliver, in some form or another. Miss Hooper was showing a great deal of trust in him, although she frankly had no other recourse; had she attempted some sort of coded message for her aunt, Moran would have instantly recognized it. The man was a brute but he was no fool. And even if he were, Moriarty was dangerously intelligent and utterly loyal.

Such thoughts occupied Sherlock's mind for the remainder of the hour-long journey, the last twenty minutes of which was spent in wet misery as the threatening rain finally manifested. He made his way through the town square and down the muddy track that led to the home Miss Hooper shared with her aunt, Mistress Martha Hudson.

He feared the conversation he and that lady were about to have would not be to either of their liking.


	2. Captain Holmes Is Admonished

_A/N: As always, a heartfelt thank you to my lovely Beta and Britpicker, LoyaulteMeLie, for going over this. She writes wonderful Star Trek: Enterprise stories featuring Malcolm Reed, which I highly recommend. :) And a shout-out to all my readers, followers, and reviewers for reading, following and reviewing. You guys rock!_

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"Let me be sure that I understand you correctly, Captain Holmes. Rather than subject my niece to interrogation and torture at the hands of your distasteful commanding officer, you elected instead to subject her to the ignominy of claiming her as your mistress? In what way, sir, is sullying her reputation and damaging her future prospects preferable to allowing her to nobly give her life for a cause in which she believes quite passionately?"

Miss Hooper's aunt was not an intimidating woman at first glance; slight of build, much like her niece, Martha Hudson stood not much taller. Her hair was steel grey, and if he were the fanciful type he would extrapolate that it was simply an external indication of her character – strong and unyielding. Far from feeling gratitude to him for his rescue, it seemed that she was thoroughly annoyed with him at the moment.

Annoyed, he noted, taking in the tell-tale signs of her emotional state with a flick of an eyelid, but not truly angry. There was a note of resignation in her voice; her hands, folded at her waist over one another, showed every indication of wishing to wring themselves together, but the older woman was just as determined not to allow him to see any sign of her deeper distress. She loved her niece, he concluded; Miss Hooper was no burden to the woman who had raised her after her parents' untimely deaths, even though Mistress Hudson's own husband had gone to the gallows long before then.

She'd never remarried, had instead forged a quiet life for herself here in the colonies, and Sherlock at once perceived that her quiet fortitude had impressed itself upon her niece, giving Miss Hooper the strength of character she currently possessed.

Mistress Hudson, he concluded, his mind returning with its usual swift efficiency back to the matter at hand, had no real desire to see her niece martyred in the name of patriotism. Her words were sincerely uttered, but only in the sense that she believed it was a fate her niece might prefer, rather than a dearly-held conviction of her own.

With that in mind, he chose his next words with care, seeing the sharp intelligence in this woman's eyes as well as her concern for her niece's well-being and reputation. "I can assure you, Mistress Hudson, that while Miss Hooper is in my care, no harm shall come to her due to any actions of my own – or of my men," he added, when he saw her brow lowering and a frown forming on her lips. "You have my word on it."

She gave an unladylike sniff, emphasising both her disdain and her doubts. "Your word as 'an officer and a gentleman'?" she said, contempt dripping from every word.

He plainly surprised her by shaking his head in a firm 'no'. "My word as a Holmes, Mistress Hudson. I value the honour of that name far more than I value my rank in the cavalry or my station in life, of that I can assure you."

She tilted her head and studied him, as if reading the depths of his sincerity in his eyes or the way he held his body, and then gave a stiff nod. "Very well, then. Allow me some time to pack the necessities for my niece's stay with you. And I will pen her a note as well; two, actually," she added as she made her way to the door separating the front parlour from the rest of the small house. "One for you to deliver to Molly personally, and one for you to allow Colonel Moran to read. I expect you're clever enough to find a way to keep him from reading the former." Then she vanished from view, while a reluctant smile tugged at Sherlock's lips.

Against his will, he found himself quite liking Mistress Hudson.

**oOo**

The return journey from Baxton was even more miserable than the outward voyage, as the rain continued to pour down upon Sherlock and Toby. The horse was far more resigned to his damp fate than his rider, who kept up a steady stream of low-voiced curses the entire time, Mistress Hudson's words still ringing in his ears. By the time they re-entered Marlborough, the sun had nearly set, although it was difficult to tell with the dark clouds crowding the sky, and Sherlock was thoroughly out of temper.

He removed himself from the horse, gave it over to the keeping of the stable-lad who darted out into the wet as soon as Sherlock bellowed for assistance, and plodded his way to his quarters, boots squelching in the mud and Miss Hooper's belongings slung over his shoulders.

He hoped she appreciated everything he'd endured for her sake, he thought sourly as he reached his temporary home. Wiggins stood outside, looking as miserable as Sherlock felt, but he mustered a proper salute and hastened to unlock and open the door as his commanding officer approached. "She's been as meek as a lamb," he reported quietly. "Not a peep out of her since she was escorted here. Dr. Watson brought her some supper and spent some time with her, and he said to tell you to be easy with her, since she's had such an uncomfortable day and all."

Sherlock gave him an incredulous stare. "She's had an uncom…! _Fine_," he bit off at Wiggins' wide-eyed expression of alarm at this show of temper. "She's had an uncomfortable day, granted. And you'll have an uncomfortable night with this rain if you intend to stand guard over the two of us."

Wiggins shifted from foot to foot uneasily, grasping his musket with both hands and rolling his eyes toward the inn. "Sorry, sir, but Colonel's orders are that someone has to stay on duty all night. I volunteered before that bas…uh, before Sergeant Moriarty could do so."

Sherlock's lips twisted in a sneer; of course the good sergeant would be eager to volunteer to spy on the potential spies. "Very well, Wiggins. You're relieved of your usual duties tomorrow." He glanced ruefully down at his muddy boots. "I believe I can manage to clean my own uniform for once."

He entered the house, closing the door on Wiggins' thanks, but only after retrieving the key from his corpsman.

Earlier this disruption of routine had seemed like an intriguing adventure; now, soaking wet, weary, and mud-spattered, all Sherlock felt was irritation. At himself, for his impulsive actions, and at Miss Hooper, for putting him in this ridiculous position in the first place.

Then he glanced through the door into his bedroom, and his face softened at the sight of her fast asleep on his bed. She was fully clothed except for her sturdy brown shoes, which rested next to his slippers beneath it. No, he corrected himself, she'd also removed her cap, which was neatly set on the peg on the back of the door, along with her shawl and his dressing-gown. Rather than turning down the coverlet on his bed, she'd covered herself with the patchwork quilt that normally sat unused on the back of the settee in the parlour, and the thought crossed his mind that she wished to intrude as little as possible into his routine.

With a sigh, he backed out of the room, leaving the single candle she'd brought to light her way resting in its pewter stand. The lamps were lit in the parlour, and by their light he began the arduous process of stripping off his soaking wet clothing and changing into something warm and dry.

A discreet knock at the door brought these proceedings to a halt; he debated ignoring the request for entrance, knowing it wouldn't be Wiggins – but then, it would be someone to whom Wiggins had granted access. That meant it was either the Colonel, who could not be safely ignored, or one other man. One who could be ignored, but only at the expense of a lecture on the morrow.

With an exhausted groan – Sherlock had already received an earful from Miss Hooper's Aunt Martha regarding his impulsive attempt to save her niece from certain death, although her objections were entirely due to the lie he'd invented – he dragged himself over to the door, stripping off his wet, woollen socks and dropping them on the floor to land where they would. He unlatched the door; as expected, Dr. John Watson, his one friend in this hellish war besides the ever faithful Wiggins, was glaring at him, rain dripping from his tricorn hat. "Come in, John, before you are washed away with the tides," Sherlock drawled, stepping aside to allow the other man entry.

He continued removing his soaked uniform, as unconcerned with modesty as he'd always been, knowing John would roll his eyes but say nothing, at least not on that subject.

Sure enough, the next words out of his friend's mouth as he removed his sodden hat were, "Have you completely lost your mind?"

"Softly, John, the lady has fallen asleep," Sherlock admonished him, glancing at the half-closed door to the house's sole bedroom. "How you failed to note that I've been keeping my voice low is beyond my comprehension."

"I've given the poor girl laudanum," John snapped back, his voice slightly lowered nonetheless. "How else did you think she could sleep at such a time?"

Oh dear, he was certainly in for it now. He'd hoped the message Wiggins had delivered was to be the end of the matter from John, but apparently that hope was to be a vain one. With a second sigh, one he didn't bother to hide, Sherlock padded barefoot over to the large chest under the window, throwing it open and rummaging around in it for a nightshirt. He rarely bothered with such articles, being far more comfortable sleeping in the nude, but he supposed that for propriety's sake he should do the expected thing for a change, even if his 'guest' was resting in a drugged sleep. He should have noted the signs that her sleep was not a natural one, but his current state of mental and physical exhaustion was certainly excuse enough for his not having done so.

Besides, he would need the additional layer if he was going to be spending an uncomfortable night wrapped in a blanket on the floor in front of the hearth.

"Sherlock," John continued testily, "will you please explain what madness has overcome you? Claiming the young lady as your mistress when we both know she's no such thing?"

"Would you rather see her hang, John?" Sherlock asked, donning the nightshirt and throwing himself into his favourite chair with a scowl. "For we both know, do we not, that that would surely have been the outcome had I not spoken out for her."

John moved automatically to seat himself in the chair opposite Sherlock's, sinking down with a worried expression working furrows into his brow. "It's possible Colonel Moran would have simply kept her locked up for the duration of the war," he tried to argue, but it was a feeble attempt and he soon abandoned it. Sherlock didn't even have to give him 'the look', as John grumpily called it; the one that said quite plainly 'do stop being an idiot'.

Instead, he reached down for the Persian slipper that had travelled with him from London, pulling his pouch of tobacco from its toe. His pipe was set on the mantle above his head, and he reached up and pulled it down, lighting the shag with an ember from the hearth and taking a long, satisfying puff before speaking again.

"Colonel Moran would have seen her swinging from the gallows if I hadn't spoken up for her, John, there is no getting around that simple fact. My solution was perhaps imperfect but far better than the alternative." He grimaced as he remembered the condemnation from Molly's aunt. "And I have already heard all I wish to hear on how I could better have resolved the situation," he muttered, his voice taking on a petulant tone. No one had scolded him like that since he was a small boy, and, much as he liked her, part of him resented the woman for making him feel that way once again. As if he'd done something wrong, when in truth he'd exercised the only plausible option available to him in the limited time he'd had to concoct a cover story for Molly's actions.

"So you'll carry on pretending she's your mistress, keeping her a virtual captive here until, what? This idiotic war finally grinds to an end, months or even years from now?" John's acrimonious words interrupted his thoughts.

Sherlock shrugged and gazed into the hearth. Wiggins had set it blazing and restocked the supply of wood so there was more than enough to see them through the night and the next day. "I'm afraid Miss Hooper is the one who got herself into this mess, John, when she illicitly entered my quarters in search of…" He paused, brow furrowed with thought.

"In search of…?" John prompted, sounding genuinely curious.

Sherlock shrugged again. "I have no idea," he confessed. "I shall have to ask the lady herself when she awakens. I have no battle plans worthy of risking her life over, or lists of secret informants that might be useful to the colonists. Nothing that could possibly tempt anyone into searching through my private papers." He smirked. "I did, however, take the time before leaving to scribble a few love notes in case anyone else chose to examine my documents in my absence."

"I can just imagine how precise and scholarly such love notes must be," John scoffed lightly, his mood apparently eased somewhat.

Sherlock's smirk deepened. "My dear Dr. Watson," he said, mildly chastising, "I do believe my former mistress would beg to differ as to my scholarly style."

John raised an eyebrow but said no more on the subject, choosing instead to return to the question of Miss Hooper's new (and very tenuous) position as an unwilling resident in Sherlock's billet – and in his bed. "You know you won't be able to simply hide her away here," he said, leaning forward and resting his forearm on one knee as he gazed at his friend earnestly. "She'll have to take on the appearance of being your mistress in public, unless you wish to continue to enjoy Colonel Moran's suspicions."

Sherlock sighed and nodded, taking an aggressive series of pulls on his pipe to express his dissatisfaction. "Yes, yes," he replied impatiently, waving one hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. "I'll trot her out for display tomorrow, take a turn around the compound with her on my arm. And I'll be sure to have her mend my uniforms or darn my socks whilst occupying the bench out front. Once the rains end, of course," he added darkly. "If they ever do."

"And of course you'll be sure to be caught kissing her," John interjected smoothly, watching with a placid smile as Sherlock inhaled too much smoke and went into a brief coughing fit.

"I'll do no such thing!" he said with a glare, but John's expression had gone deadly serious, and seeing this Sherlock swallowed in momentary perturbation.

"Sherlock, if Moran suspects for even one moment that you have lied about this relationship, both of you will face severe consequences," John said. "And you know he isn't above sending Moriarty to snoop around; that Irish bastard is a rat through and through and he'll be keeping a close eye on you on the colonel's behalf. And that," he added with a raised eyebrow, "means no sleeping on the hearth after tonight. The young lady could be expected to need her rest this evening after so arduous a day, but if you are caught not sharing your bed with her after that…" His voice trailed off and he simply looked at the other man, who understood exactly what his friend was saying.

Sherlock rose to his feet, knocking the bowl of his still-glowing pipe against the fender, allowing the contents to fall into the flames with a sizzle. "Yes, John, I understand," he growled. "I must in fact do everything I can to alleviate our beloved commander's suspicions of me and of the young lady. However," he added, turning to face his friend once again, "I have no doubts that Miss Hooper will only cooperate to a certain extent…and will undoubtedly scheme to free herself from this situation as quickly as possible."

"And you must keep her from doing so, for your own sake as well as hers," Watson admonished him, needlessly of course since Sherlock was already well aware of that. He grunted acknowledgement and turned his moody gaze to the flames.

Sherlock heard John rising to his feet, felt his friend's hand on his shoulder, squeezing sympathetically. "Sherlock, I know you did what you did to save a life, and I admire you for that, but it won't be easy, this path you've laid out for the two of you. I wish you the best, and will do everything in my power to assist you at every turn. And you know Wiggins will as well," he added.

Sherlock grunted again, still gazing into the flames, until he heard John sigh and felt him remove his hand from his shoulder. He listened as his friend's footsteps retreated across the room, and there were the small sounds of him once again donning his hat and coat. The sound of the door opening and the rain hissing into the room fell across Sherlock's ears, and then his friend was gone, leaving him to contemplate his actions – and wonder if he'd mired himself in a hole far too deep to escape from.


	3. What The Morning Brings

_A/N: Things start to heat up between Miss Hooper and Captain Holmes as they discuss their mutual situation. Enjoy!_

* * *

Sherlock awoke the next morning at his usual time, a half hour before dawn, and rose with a grumble from his uncomfortable resting place on the hearth. He was warm enough, even with only a single blanket wrapped around his lanky form, but missed even the questionable comforts of his bed. However, he'd slept in far worse conditions, or so he reminded himself when his grumbling threatened to turn to cursing as his back creaked when he stretched it. Yawning and rubbing at his aching hip – next time he would be sure to sleep on his back rather than his side – he automatically headed for his bedroom, intent on making use of the ceramic chamber pot resting beneath his bed, but paused with his hand on the latch. He'd managed to forget, in his morning mental fog, that both the room and the bed were currently occupied. He hesitated, torn between simply making his way quietly inside and removing the necessity from its current location, and not wanting to disturb his 'guest' if she had not yet awoken from her laudanum-induced slumbers.

Biting off a curse, he obeyed his second and nobler impulse, shoving his feet into his everyday boots and stumbling outside to the privy to relieve himself. He was grateful that the storms had finally abated, and that the path was therefore somewhat less muddy than it might otherwise have been. Well, 'somewhat less' was a bit of a stretch; at least it wasn't pouring rain on him as he trudged through the muck, he thought sourly.

After slogging his way back inside, careful to scrape as much of the mud off his boots as he could, he bit back another curse as he found himself confronted by the lady herself, her dress somewhat crumpled, her stays clearly loosened, with the afghan wrapped snugly around her shoulders. "My apologies if I awoke you," he said with a slight bow, recognising the ridiculousness of doing so whilst clad only in a long, white nightshirt.

Miss Hooper shook her head and averted her eyes from his improperly clad form. "No apologies necessary for that, Captain Holmes," she replied. "I am an early riser by nature, and slept quite soundly thanks to Doctor Watson's insistence that I choke down his opiates."

Sherlock, who had poured himself a glass of water and had been about to take a sip, nearly choked on it trying not to laugh at the tartness of her voice as she finished speaking. "I take it you did not wish to be aided to slumber?" he asked, eyes crinkling with amusement.

Miss Hooper, however, did not appear amused. She stood near the hearth, a very unladylike scowl marring her otherwise pleasant features as she toyed with the ends of her neatly braided hair. "I wished only to make my way to my home, Captain Holmes," she replied bluntly. "To relieve you of the burden of continuing to pretend to a relationship that does not – and never will – exist." Her voice sharpened warningly, and there was challenge in her eyes as she met his gaze.

"I can assure you, Miss Hooper, that I did not engage in this ridiculous deception merely to take the opportunity to avail myself of your charms," Sherlock said coldly, his brief amusement vanishing. "Your virtue is in no danger from me."

He thought he saw a flash of remorse in her eyes, although it was difficult to tell when she continued to avert her gaze. He supposed he could excuse himself in order to at least put on some trousers, but some contrary part of his nature stubbornly refused to give in to the gentlemanly impulse. They were in this predicament due to her actions; she could bloody well learn to live with the consequences.

"I do not wish to appear ungrateful," she began, and Sherlock couldn't stop the bark of sardonic laughter that escaped his throat. "You find me humorous?" she asked, colouring slightly although her voice remained steady as she darted a look at his face.

"I find the entire situation humorous," Sherlock replied, pulling out one of the four straight-backed chairs from the table and seating himself, manners be damned. It was clear his temporary house-mate was in a contentious mood, and he was becoming irritated as he considered the necessary actions they would both have to agree to in order to remain safe. "Starting with the fact that you do, indeed, appear ungrateful, not to put too fine a point on it. I've yet to hear you say 'thank you'," he added pointedly. "I would think simple courtesy…"

"Thank you for your assistance, Captain Holmes," she interrupted him. "I appreciate your willingness to pretend to a relationship that would explain my presence in your quarters; however, I would also appreciate your assistance in returning me to my…"

"Your aunt sends her regards," Sherlock said, smugly interrupting her as he noted her increased agitation. He got back to his feet, rummaging in his coat pocket and procuring the missive her aunt had written for her. "And also this letter." He offered it to her, but when she eagerly reached for it, he lifted it out of her reach and cocked a warning eyebrow at her. "Once you have read this, it must go directly into the fire," he cautioned her. "There is another letter you may read as well, one that I am of course duty-bound to share with Colonel Moran. Who," he added as he allowed Miss Hooper to take the letter, "will be expecting me at breakfast in another hour."

Miss Hooper was ignoring him, a rather remarkable sensation as he was unused to unattached young ladies doing anything other than fluttering over him. However, considering the circumstances, he could hardly fault her. Her expression gradually darkened into a frown that threatened to remain indefinitely as she silently read over her aunt's words.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock ventured to ask when she carefully refolded the paper and gazed down at it.

She started and looked at him as if she'd forgotten his presence. "My aunt urges me not to do anything she would consider 'foolish'," she said slowly. "By which I presume she means for me to remain here and not bash you over the head with a pewter mug and make my escape."

"Wise words on your aunt's part," Sherlock replied, discreetly moving the pewter mug at his elbow out of Miss Hooper's reach. "Should I be discovered unconscious in my quarters after you'd fled – presumably stealing a horse if you can ride? – I can assure you the first thing Colonel Moran would do after clapping me in irons is hunt you down and have you put to death."

All the bravado seemed to leave her at that bald statement, and she sank down onto the nearest chair, her expression blank. "Surely you could find some excuse to give that would allow me to return home? You've assisted me thus far, Captain Holmes…"

"Sherlock," he interrupted her firmly. "You must call me Sherlock when in private."

She gave him a disdainful look, finally working up the nerve – or possibly simply the exasperation – to stare pointedly at his inappropriately-clad body from head to toe. "We hardly know one another well enough for such intimacies, _Captain_ Holmes," she said, giving his title slight but obvious emphasis. "And if we are 'in private', there should be no need for us to carry out such a charade."

"If we are to affect an intimate relationship, Miss Hooper – Molly," he corrected himself deliberately, "then we must be convincing, don't you agree?" As he spoke he held out his hand; immediately understanding his intent, she hesitated only a moment before handing him the letter from her aunt, watching unhappily as he tossed it into the flames.

The watched it burn before she spoke again. "I suppose I must agree…Sherlock."

He sternly stamped down on the flutter of enjoyment he felt at hearing her pronounce his Christian name; the game was not seduction but protection. For both of them, since he'd recklessly put his own neck on the block in the effort to save hers. To better understand how he could extend and perhaps reinforce that protection, he needed more information from his unwilling guest.

"What did you hope to find in my quarters, Miss Hooper? Surely you didn't think a mere Captain's correspondence could hold any military secrets worth risking your life over!"

"Oh," Molly said with a small shrug. "It was a mistake."

"Yes, certainly," Sherlock agreed. "But the question remains: why did you make such a mistake? What did you hope to find in my papers…" He fell silent as she shifted in her seat, fingers worrying at the skirts of her dress. His brow furrowed and then smoothed as he realised what must have happened. "Ah, I see. Were you led to believe, perhaps, that this humble abode was where the good Colonel Moran was billeted?"

She nodded, not bothering to attempt any dissembling. After all, she'd been well and truly caught, and it was only by Sherlock's good graces that she retained any semblance of freedom at all. "It seemed like too good an opportunity to let pass," she admitted ruefully. "I was supposed to pass on the information to…certain other parties…but when I came to deliver the vegetables to your cookhouse, and saw what I thought was the Colonel's quarters unguarded, I took my chance."

"Reckless," Sherlock noted, "but no different to how I would have approached the matter, I suppose."

Molly looked surprised, as if she hadn't been expecting even so watered-down a compliment. He was surprised as well; he'd started this conversation intending to keep her on the back foot, to impress upon her the seriousness of her situation, not to admire her willingness to risk herself for a cause in which she clearly believed most passionately. He caught himself wondering if she were equally impassioned under other, more intimate circumstances, and scowled at the lack of discipline within his own mind.

Then her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Captain William Sherlock Scott Holmes lost his train of thought completely. Unaware of his own actions, he found himself on his feet and moving to stand directly in front of Molly. She gazed up at him in mute inquiry, then gasped as he grasped her wrist in one hand, pulled her to her feet and bent his head to press his lips to hers.

oOo

It took Molly a moment to understand what was happening. Not because she was innocent of such goings-on between men and women – which she was only in the sense that no one had ever kissed her before – but because her mind went entirely blank as the handsome Brit's lips met hers. For a shockingly long moment she even forgot to resist as the sensations flooded through her, setting off a chain reaction that was as exciting as it was disgraceful.

When sense finally came roaring back into her mind, she pulled away and stared at him, outrage warring with worry on her face as she demanded, "_What_ do you think you're doing?" She wasn't worried about his intentions so much as her own instinctive – and highly inappropriate – reactions. She ought to be slapping him right now, instead of wanting him to kiss her again! And even if she did want him to do so, she would certainly never speak such a desire out loud!

He had the gall to roll his eyes, as if _she, _rather than he, were in the wrong. His tone in reply was even more exasperating, being so patronising it made her want to slap him just for that – as well, of course, as for his reprehensible conduct. "In order for this to work, Molly, we must be seen acting as if you are, indeed, my mistress when in public view. And in order for that masquerade to be properly enacted, I will from time to time be required to kiss you!"

Molly glared at him. This arrogant, pompous...oh, she had no proper words for what he was but would be sure to ask her good friend Captain Greg Lestrade for them once she'd freed herself from this ridiculous French farce of a situation. "I am perfectly capable of kissing you, Captain Holmes, _when_ the circumstances call for it. Which they currently do _not!_" She ignored the fluttering of her stomach, the pounding of her heart and the heat in her cheeks that gave lie to her denials. It didn't help that he was clad only in a white nightshirt that bared his shapely calves to her view; why hadn't she demanded that he dress himself when she first awoke and met him in the parlour?

He raised an insolent eyebrow at her as he continued to pin her with his gaze. "Really? Can you kiss me like a woman greeting her lover after an absence, when I return from patrol?" His voice seemed to go even lower, raising goosebumps on her arms and prickling the short hairs on the back of her neck. "Or kiss me like a woman saying goodbye to a man she may never see again, when I leave in the first place?" He was stroking the back of her hand, which he'd refused to release, with one finger. Molly found herself fighting the urge to shiver as she gaped up at him.

His entire attitude shifted to icy disdain as quickly as it had turned to smouldering sexuality, and his voice regained its regular timbre as he continued: "Because that is exactly what is going to be expected of you. Moran is suspicious of us both; only the fact that he has never had reason to question my loyalties to the Crown has stopped him from accusing me of covering for you. Which," he added pointedly, "I am. Now. I give you my word that my motives are solely for your benefit when I ask you, once again, to allow me to kiss you. We must appear to be comfortable with one another, or at least more comfortable than we currently are."

Molly considered his 'request' for a long moment, unable to tear her gaze away from his remarkable eyes. Right now they were cold and impatient, not at all the eyes of a man who wished to seduce a woman into his arms – or his bed. He'd acted with honour so far, protecting her when he knew very well that she was an enemy spy. That, she decided, was the only reason she found herself agreeing to continue this mad charade. Not because he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen, or the most intelligent – although he most certainly was both those things.

No, it was a combination of simple gratitude and common sense that caused her to nod her agreement; that _had_ to be all it was. Her heart was pounding, of course it was; whose heart wouldn't pound in such a fraught situation? Her life was still in danger; one word from this man and it would all be over. He was certainly clever enough to spin a believable yarn as to why he had protected her in the first place – his desire to make her his mistress in reality was undoubtedly all it would take for that lecherous pig Moran to believe him.

Captain Holmes – Sherlock, she must remember to call him by his Christian name as he'd requested when in private – gazed down at her with a faint smirk curling his lips as he pulled her closer, slowly but with confidence, releasing his grip on her wrist and moving that hand to her waist. The other moved up to brush against her shoulder, coming to rest on the nape of her neck so he could tilt her head up as he lowered his own to meet hers. His lips were soft, gentle, and her eyes fluttered shut as they moved against hers, maintaining a light pressure that gradually increased, although she found herself so lost in the moment that she only noticed when she felt his tongue lightly pressing against her lips, teasing them open and eliciting a gasp of surprise he quickly took advantage of. The pressing became a thrust, and suddenly his tongue was in her mouth, sliding along hers in a vulgar, erotic movement like none she'd ever experienced.

Instead of pushing him away in righteous indignation as her upbringing told her was the correct response to such an outrage, she tentatively allowed her tongue to move against his, feeling a surge of triumph at his startled intake of breath at the boldness of her response. Molly Hooper had never backed down from a challenge in her entire two-and-twenty years, and she didn't intend to start now. At least, that was all she told herself it was; he'd pushed, and she refused to back down. It had nothing to do with the galloping of her heart or the roaring of her blood through her veins.

Sherlock pulled back and stared at her for a long moment, eyes suddenly wilder than they had been and droplets of sweat glistening on his forehead. Molly stared up at him, fearing that her own eyes held the same hunger. He gave her no time to protest as he lunged forward and brought his mouth slashing down against hers with what felt like very real passion, taking her lower lip between his teeth and nipping at it until her mouth opened beneath his again.

Dimly Molly realized that she was holding his upper arms in her hands in a desperate attempt to remain on her feet as a wave of dizziness overcame her, weakening her knees and making her ankles feel distinctly wobbly. Whether Sherlock noted her unsteadiness or whether he was simply as overcome with desire as she was, his grasp on her tightened; the arm around her waist hauled her closer, pressing her against the firm length of his semi-clad body, and Molly felt a warm bulge against her hip through the thin layer of his nightshirt. Although she had no direct experience with such portions of the male anatomy, she certainly knew what it portended!

Once again, instead of feeling shame or alarm, all she felt was a rising flush of heat from her feminine core that travelled up her torso to paint her cheeks a heated red. The hand on her waist slid downward to fondle her bottom, while the other was tangled desperately in her hair. She realized with a faint sense of surprise that one of her own hands had moved up to clutch with equal desperation at his dark curls while the other had somehow wandered to his shoulder.

He was the first to break the fervent embrace, pulling his lips from hers and holding her at arm's length, chest heaving and his breathing as ragged as her own. His eyes had darkened with lust, and she was certain the dark brown of her own was equally drenched in blackness. "You play a dangerous game, Miss Hooper," he said in a hoarse growl. "Do not think to tempt me into more indiscretions than I've already committed on your behalf."

She glared at him again, inexplicably wounded by his words; of course he would think her forward behaviour was meant as a seduction, another attempt to secure her freedom. She tossed her head as she fought to regain her severely rattled composure; the kisses had affected her far more than they should have. "And why _did_ you help me, Captain Holmes?" she finally managed to ask, displeased by how breathless her voice sounded. "What do you want from me, if not this?" She gestured to indicate her body, painfully aware of its shortcomings and ashamed of the small part of her that thrilled to the undeniable fact that he did, indeed, seem to find it enticing enough to tempt him into saving her from the gallows.

When he finally answered, however, it was nothing she'd expected to hear. "Because I see no point in further lives being needlessly lost to this ridiculous war."

Molly stared at him as he moved away from her, deliberately turning his back as he went to the hearth in order to add another log to the fire, recognising that he was testing her. Would she attempt to overpower him, laughable though such a goal would seem to be considering the differences in their sizes, or would she simply take the opportunity to flee through the unlocked door in spite of his earlier assertions as to the foolishness of such an act?

She did neither, not being a fool. His corpsman, Wiggins, was waiting outside, or another guard had been posted, and she'd seen the looks Colonel Moran had levelled at both her and the captain; as Sherlock had said, any such attempt would be immediately noted and halted, ending with the two of them side by side in the gaol, awaiting first interrogation and then hanging.

She shivered a bit at the thought; she wasn't nearly as insouciant about dying as she tried to appear, and no matter what his motives, Captain Holmes had saved her life by his intervention. When he straightened and turned from the fire, he appeared unsurprised to see her standing exactly where he'd left her.

They traded stares before Molly spoke again. "I still don't think I understand your meaning, Captain Holmes," she finally said.

"Sherlock," he corrected her. "My name, as I have already informed you, is Sherlock. Along with kissing and other embraces, it would do us well to remember to call one another by our Christian names whenever possible. I thought we had come to an agreement on this matter…Molly."

Hearing him say her name in that baritone rumble threatened to weaken her knees yet again; she stiffened them and merely nodded to indicate her agreement. "And what do you not understand, Molly?" he asked while she continued to stare stupidly at him, all previous thoughts flown from her head.

"Me," she finally squeaked out, then readjusted the afghan around her shoulders in order to give herself a moment to compose herself. (Goodness, she was having to do that an awful lot today!) "I mean, why save me? You barely know me, you know I wasn't here for anything…harmless," she said after seeking the appropriate term. "If you didn't do it to make me your mistress in truth, then why do it at all?"

He shrugged and toyed with a pair of exquisite wine glasses placed on the mantel. Expensive crystal, she noted with part of her mind. Since they bore what looked to be a family crest etched into the glass, she knew they hadn't been looted or purchased on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, which meant they'd survived a sea crossing and however many moves he'd made since arriving here...how long ago?

As she opened her mouth to ask, he interrupted her. "Three years. I have been on this continent for three bloody years, Molly, and I am more than ready to return home, I can assure you."

"How did you know…?"

He waved one hand dismissively. "I saw you examining the wine glasses, noting their pristine condition. Seeing my family crest you knew they had travelled here with me and allowed yourself to be distracted by wondering how long I had been here. Three years, and God willing, I will return home in no more than two additional years. Sooner, if the generals get their heads out of their bloody arses and see what's right in front of their eyes."

"And what would that be?" Molly asked cautiously.

He shrugged and turned to fully face her. "Isn't it obvious? The war is already over, it's just that neither side can see it yet."

She couldn't help it; she bristled at the dismissive tone of his voice. "Don't count the Americans out yet, Captain Holmes!"

"Call me Sherlock," he corrected her with a scowl. "And you mistake my meaning. It is not the rebels who will be conceding defeat within the next two years, but the British Army."

She stared at him, mouth opened for protests she could no longer make. "On, on what do you base that opinion?" she finally managed to ask.

He shrugged. "Oh, it isn't an opinion, but fact. And I base it upon my knowledge of British and Colonial – sorry, American – tactics and strategies, the French participating more actively on the American side, the unwillingness of the British officers in charge of this fiasco to acknowledge that their strategies are inherently flawed...I could go on and on, but I shan't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that I am convinced that the colonies will very soon be recognised as an independent nation."

"If British defeat is as inevitable as you make it out to be, then why prolong your own part in it?" she asked, genuinely interested in knowing how this fascinating man's mind worked. When not in danger of being hanged as a spy, she believed she could spend hours conversing with him. Or doing other things involving the two of them investigating one another's bodies without the nuisance of clothing... She hurriedly whisked her mind away from _that _particular avenue of thought. "Why not simply resign your commission and return to England if you feel this is a lost cause?" she asked, attempting to return her wayward thoughts to more respectable topics. Then, greatly daring, she added: "Or why not throw your lot in with the winning side?"

The look he shot her was suddenly pure venom, and his voice fairly dripped disdain as he snapped out his response. "Because I am neither a coward nor a traitor, Miss Hooper, a fact which you would do well to remember in future conversations."

His good humour had entirely vanished, it would seem. Molly watched with wary eyes as he stalked out of the room, pausing in the doorway for one parting shot. "Pray excuse me, as I must dress and prepare myself to break my fast with Colonel Moran. I shall have Wiggins bring you something to eat as soon as I can." The bedroom door slammed shut, and she was left standing in the parlour, wondering what her next course of action should be.

**oOo**

Sherlock resisted the urge to slam his fist into the wall, although it was a difficult struggle. He hadn't meant for any of that to happen – not the first kiss, nor the second, certainly not his body's betraying reaction to the blasted woman! Not even his predictions for the eventual outcome of the war were words he'd meant to share with anyone; he'd never even discussed those beliefs with John Watson, for God's sake! Yet here he was, blathering his innermost thoughts to her as if they'd known one another for decades, and were good friends…or lovers.

He threw off his nightshirt, uncaring that it landed half on the floor and half on the neatly made bed. There was no sign that Molly had occupied it so recently, not even an indentation in the pillow. Conscientious of her, he thought with an attempt at a sneer. His traitorous body, however, continued to make its lascivious interest in her known, as his inopportune erection continued to plague him in spite of his distemper. And his equally traitorous mind kept whispering how easy it would prove to convince her to share that bed with him, in spite of her protestations to the contrary. The right words, softly spoken; his sincere sympathy for her cause even as he fought on the opposite side; soft looks and sweet caresses, and she would melt into his embrace.

And hate him all the more for it once he'd taken her.

That thought was the dose of cold reality his body needed to return to its normal, unaroused state, and to bring sober clarity to his mind. No matter how enjoyable it had been to hold Molly Hooper in his arms, to kiss those sweet lips, to feel her responding to his attentions, it was a dangerous, potentially deadly game they were playing. Neither of them could be allowed to forget that, ever. And the longer it progressed, the more dangerous it would become.

He paused in the midst of pulling on his trousers; how long, exactly would the game have to continue in order to convince Moran of Molly's supposed innocence? Would the blasted man expect them to remain together for as long as they remained quartered here, or would Sherlock be able at some point in the near future to return her to her aunt's house, under the guise of having grown weary of her?

In spite of his deductive abilities, this was one question that could not be answered without further investigation. Starting with breakfast. Finishing his morning ablutions as quickly as he could without the usual aid of Wiggins – who no doubt hesitated to venture into the house with Miss Hooper inside – he donned his clothing and strode back into the main room of the house to reclaim his boots, jacket and hat before facing his second dragon of the day.

* * *

_A/N: As always, a heartfelt thank you to my lovely Beta and Britpicker, LoyaulteMeLie, for going over this, as well as to nocturnias for some last-minute hand-holding. And a shout-out to all my readers, followers, and reviewers for reading, following and reviewing. Thank you so much!_


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